


Dénouement

by Helholden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ASOS Spoilers, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blackwater AU, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, POV Female Character, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:02:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helholden/pseuds/Helholden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa leaves with the Hound during the Battle of Blackwater, and everything that follows after. Follows an alternate ‘A Storm of Swords’ plot. Presented in three parts, spanning over the course of a few years. Blackwater AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Road to Winterfell

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to try my hand at a “what would happen if” canon divergence. What if Sansa never closes her eyes and the Hound never pulls a knife on her, and everything that comes as a result of those choices. Apparently, my mental perception of the Hound is a lot more honorable than I expected it to be, and the story stayed innocent while she was still pretty young. I also had Lana Del Rey’s ‘Born to Die’ and Hurt’s ‘Links and Waves’ on repeat as inspiration while writing this. They’re sort of the soundtrack to this work.

_i._

 

She awoke suddenly in the forest to the sound of dense crisp leaves crackling. Fear shot through her heart, and Sansa pushed herself up by her arms, looking around to get a lay of the land. She didn’t know where she was, nor could she remember why she was here, and the terror was real, palpable. Her heart thudded in her chest.

 

His boots crunched the leaves as he came around a tree, and the Hound eyed her briefly before turning around to tend to his horse. He was carrying a bundle he strapped to Stranger’s side, and Sansa remembered where she was and why, and who had brought her here. _The Hound_ , she thought, her mouth going dry. He had offered to take her away from King’s Landing, drunk and frightening, but something told her the wild with him was better than a prison keep with Joffrey.

 

“I could keep you safe,” he had rasped in the darkness of her room as wildfire lit the sky. “They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.” He had yanked her closer, and Sansa had been afraid he meant to kiss her. He made no move to do so. She almost closed her eyes. Something beyond her had told her to keep them open. His face in the dark hadn’t been as bad as it was during the day, the blood masking the worst of his scars. His grip had loosened on her, his body leaning away. He had seemed almost satisfied that she hadn’t looked away.

 

The Hound never hurt her like the others had, she had remembered that night, and he had even saved her from Lolly Stokeworth’s fate with the mob. He had always protected her in what ways he could, never striking her by Joffrey’s command, and so she had said yes as wildfire arced through the sky outside of her window, her voice small and scared to her own ears, but she had nodded her head all the same.

 

Now, she watched as he gathered up the campsite gear, preparing to leave. Sansa did not know if she should help him or wait, so she waited until he spoke to her.

 

“Come, girl,” the Hound rasped. He extended his hand to her. Sansa looked at it before she took it, and he helped her to her feet. He rolled up her blanket and fastened it to Stranger, and then he helped her onto the horse before mounting it himself.

 

They were far from the road. The road wasn’t safe, even Sansa knew that, so they traveled under the protection of trees. She thought perhaps she ought to feel afraid, traveling through the wild with a man like him, but the Hound never touched her except to help her up and down from the horse or to pass her food and drink. She remembered her prayer to the Mother for him the night the Blackwater caught fire, and found herself leaning into his arms as she rode atop the horse with him.

 

If he noticed, he didn’t say anything.

 

He was oddly quiet most days. At first, Sansa did not mind it. She began to miss conversation, though, and she wondered what she could talk to him about. She opened her mouth many times before closing it, deciding silence was better than his sneers or cruel remarks. Only he hadn’t been cruel to her since they left King’s Landing.

 

“Can I bathe?” she asked one day, when they stopped by a stream in the woods to gather some water for themselves and for Stranger.

 

The Hound cut a dark look at her. “Why?”

 

“I’m dirty,” she said.

 

“Good. You’ll look more like a peasant.”

 

Sansa opened her mouth to protest, and then realized he was right. She wanted to look more like a peasant. Her dress wasn’t rough spun, but it was simple and plain as well as dirty and torn from traveling. Her hair was a mess, so she tied it up with a ribbon to tame it. She peeked at her reflection in the water. There was dirt on her face. Sansa made a small sound of frustration in her throat, but she knew she shouldn’t clean it off.

 

They got back on the horse, Sansa seated behind him this time, and continued on. Eventually, the trees thinned out and they came upon a field to cross. The Hound was wary at first. His eyes scanned the distance for anything they ought to be aware of, but Stranger went forward again on his command and they passed under the sun for the first time since they left the city.

 

Sansa looked up at the sky and closed her eyes. She enjoyed the heat of the sun on her face. Moments passed uninterrupted until a voice called out and broke her from her reverie. Stranger halted suddenly, and Sansa peeked around the Hound’s arm. He called back out to a group ahead. He had told her a while back not to speak to anybody and stay mute, so Sansa kept her mouth shut. Her arms tightened around his middle, her breathing becoming shallow.

 

The group came upon them. They were soldiers. She could tell by how they talked. The Hound wore a cowl over his face to hide his scars, and he spoke like a peasant. Sansa clung to his back the whole time, hiding her face against his cloak. They asked about her, and the Hound said she was his daughter. They asked for a go at her and tossed him a coin. Sansa heard the metal _ting_ in the air. She clutched him tighter in fear.

 

“No,” he said, his voice scraping like steel over stone.

 

“Come now,” one of them said with a laugh. “That’s more money than you’ll see in a year. Give us the girl. We’ll return her once we’ve had a round with her.” The others laughed too. Sansa thought she might cry.

 

“I said no,” the Hound repeated darkly. _Kill them_ , Sansa thought. _Kill them all_. There was only three or four of them. He could take them. She knew he could.

 

“Don’t know how to respect your betters,” another one said. Sansa heard the sound of steel being drawn.

 

It happened so fast.

 

The Hound leapt off of Stranger and drew his sword from beneath his cloak. He slapped Stranger and sent the horse running off at a dash with Sansa on its back. She clutched helplessly as she heard the ringing of steel behind her, and she thought to make Stranger turn around, but she was too frightened to do much of anything but hold on for her life.

 

A whistle cut through the air, bringing Stranger to a halt. Another whistle came, and he turned around and began to trot back in the same direction they ran away from. Sansa saw the Hound standing in his hooded cowl, cleaning off his blade, a ring of dead bodies around his feet. There was blood on his cloak. She feared for a moment he was wounded, but he seemed just fine.

 

“The blood’s not mine,” he said, reading her thoughts. “We’d better get far from here before more come.” He hoisted himself onto Stranger with her in front this time, and they rode out of the field as quickly as possible.

 

That night they made camp in what looked like a deserted barn. It was colder than most nights, and Sansa clung to the blanket he had given her, but it wasn’t enough. He refused to light a fire, saying it would draw unwanted attention.

 

“I’m cold,” Sansa said, and he looked up at her from where he sharpened his sword.

 

“Go to sleep, girl.”

 

“I can’t,” she said softly.

 

He threw his blanket at her. “There,” he snapped. “Are you happy?”

 

It wasn’t what she meant, but Sansa wrapped up in both blankets and still couldn’t fall asleep. Eventually, the Hound lied down on the straw. She waited until she thought he was definitely asleep, and crept over to where he lay. Sansa gently placed both blankets over him and crawled under them too, snuggling against his back. He was big and warm, and somehow it made her feel safer to be beside him than all alone.

 

When she woke up, he had turned around in his sleep and wound himself around her. His heavy arm was draped across her just under her breasts, his face pressed into her hair. Sansa was so comfortable that she snuggled closer and closed her eyes again with a soft sigh. She hoped he didn’t wake up soon. He’d probably get mad at her.

 

Not long after her, he awoke. She felt him stir and freeze completely. His whole body tensed, and for the longest time, he did not move. Sansa thought feigned sleep was better than appearing awake, so she rubbed her head against his chest and sighed, her small fingers curling against his jerkin. Perhaps if he thought she was still asleep, he wouldn’t get angry with her.

 

She was right. He began to loosen up some, and she felt his arm come back down and rest over her side. His hand held her back, not ungentle. He sighed. “Little bird,” he rasped. Sansa slid her arm around him, causing him to tense up briefly again, but then she pretended to open her eyes from sleep. Sansa tilted her head back, blinking up at him.

 

“Good morning,” she said, and the Hound gave her a new look that he never used to give her before. Like he didn’t know what to make of her.

 

“We should get up,” he said gruffly, but he made no move to get up.

 

Sansa nodded, and then she ducked her head underneath his chin to yawn. She was sure her breath was a foul thing. She pushed herself up and brushed the straw off of her shoddy gown. There was a time once when she would have been upset at such a thing, wearing a dirty and torn dress, but King’s Landing had changed her. It didn’t seem so important now. Her whole world had turned upside down. She brushed off her gown calmly, and looked to the Hound.

 

He prepared the horse fast. They took a moment to eat some bread and wash it down with water, and then they resumed their journey. Sansa wondered how long it would take to get to Winterfell through the woodlands, and she fingered a loose thread on the Hound’s cloak as they rode Stranger at a normal pace. It wouldn’t come off, so she tugged on it.

 

“Stop that,” he barked, and Sansa withdrew her hand quickly as if he had slapped her. She didn’t apologize. Sometimes, she thought, it was best not to answer him. He mocked her courtesies plenty of times for her to know out here in the wild they meant very little to him.

 

“How long will it take?” she finally asked to break the silence. Sansa couldn’t withstand such a long trip with nothing said at all.

 

“Long enough,” he rasped. “A month, maybe two. That is, if we don’t encounter trouble on the way.”

 

Sansa was unnerved by that. “What kind of trouble?”

 

“Thieves, bandits, rapists, and murderers. The world’s full of them all. Take your pick.”

 

“Oh,” Sansa said, and her voice was small even to her own ears. “You won’t let them hurt me, will you?” she asked, her fingers unconsciously clutching onto his cloak again.

 

He seemed to sit up straighter on the horse. “No, little bird. I won’t let anyone hurt you. The man who tries is a dead man.”

 

Sansa was satisfied with his answer, and she laid her head against his back as she wrapped her arms around his middle. With her father no longer with her, she had no one to look out for her except for the Hound. She closed her eyes and prayed they would get to Winterfell safely with the Hound’s sword clean, but she knew it was only a prayer and sometimes the gods did not answer.

 

Come nightfall, they made a quiet camp with no fire in a dense copse of trees. A large dry rot log lay across the forest floor, and the Hound leaned against it. Sansa felt safer if she was close to him than far away, so she crept up to him and sat beside him. The Hound gave her that look again, that look like he’d never seen her before, but she ignored it and surreptitiously averted her eyes from his gaze like she was looking for something. That way he couldn’t be angry with her for looking away from his face.

 

There was a rip in his jerkin. Sansa noticed it and reached out for it, and he reacted quickly, blocking her hand by grabbing her wrist. The Hound pushed her arm away, letting go just as fast, as if he didn’t want to be bothered with touching her.

 

“Keep your distance, girl,” he warned.

 

Sansa was wounded. “I can fix it,” she whined. “I know how.”

 

“You’ll fix more than just a jerkin if you don’t keep your hands to yourself,” the Hound snapped, and he turned away from her to make his bed on the forest floor.

 

Sansa sat awake for a while, wondering why he was so mean when she had only wanted to help. He was supposed to be helping her, and yet he still got mad at her. _If he didn’t want me to come along_ , Sansa thought with tears in her eyes, _then he shouldn’t have come for me_. She quickly wiped away the tears, and lied on the ground not too close to him to try and go to sleep.

 

When morning had come, she somehow rolled herself into his arms. The air was cold, and she drew closer into his embrace for warmth. A root poked into her back from the ground, but she shifted and found a soft place away from it. Sansa began to drift off again when the Hound rolled toward her and grunted in his sleep, and the root between them poked her again. She frowned and tried to wiggle into a comfortable position without leaving his arms.

 

He jerked away from her all of a sudden, swearing loudly. Sansa started in fear, her eyes shot open, and she turned over to look at him. Had she made him angry yet again? What would he say to her this time? Would he just leave her out here if he got mad enough?

 

She expected him to look murderous, but instead he just looked afraid. It confused Sansa. When was the Hound afraid of anything, except fire? His expression didn’t last that way for long, though, and he ground his teeth together as he pointed his finger at her. “I told you to keep your damn distance,” he told her, an edge to his voice.

 

Sansa felt she would cry at any moment. “But I was cold,” she whispered.

 

The Hound took a deep breath, and got up. She watched as he paced around their campsite for a moment, and then he was packing up the horse again. She grew terrified all of a sudden, and scrambled to her feet.

 

“I won’t do it again, I promise,” Sansa blurted out, so afraid he was about to ride off without her and leave her out here in the wild all by herself. She walked up to him, but she was mindful enough to keep her distance as he said, and yet he ignored her the whole time he prepared the horse. He walked this way and that, never looking at her. “I promise I won’t do it again. I’ll do whatever you say. Please, _please_ , just don’t leave me.”

 

He froze. Sansa swallowed past the catch in her throat. The Hound slowly turned around, his sharp grey eyes staring back at her. “Is that what you think?” he asked, but she wasn’t sure how to answer him. What was the right answer, and what was the wrong? “You think I’d leave you here? After all this trouble?”

 

Sansa cast her eyes to the ground. “Why else would you be so mad?”

 

The Hound did something she didn’t expect, then.

 

He laughed.

 

“Get on the horse, girl. We don’t have all day.”

 

Sansa didn’t waste a moment. She scrambled onto Stranger with his help, and then watched as he grabbed her blanket, roll it, and tie it back onto Stranger’s side. Once he mounted the horse, they rode off again with her at his back, holding on as they sped through the trees. They stopped briefly to break their fast by a small stream, and continued on again after a moment’s rest.

 

Sansa started to keep quiet for the most part, and she slept away from him, even though it kept her up too late most nights because the weather was growing colder and colder. Each day was starting to blur together. She was so tired. After so many days of nothing more than ‘good morning,’ ‘goodnight,’ ‘yes,’ and ‘no’ said between them, the Hound finally said something about it one evening as they ate a meager supper.

 

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked. “Haven’t said a word in days.”

 

“I . . . I don’t know what to say,” Sansa said.

 

It wasn’t a full lie, but it was close enough the Hound could smell it.

 

“You’re lying, girl.”

 

“I haven’t been sleeping,” she blurted out, admitting it all to him. “It’s so cold and the blanket isn’t enough to keep warm. You won’t let me near you. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, and you won’t tell me. I’m afraid I’m going to wake up one morning and you won’t be there.” There were tears in her eyes when she was finished. It was silly of her to cry. She was ten and two, a maiden flowered. She should be strong. Queen Cersei was strong. Why couldn’t she be more like her?

 

The Hound was quiet for a long time. He did not answer her, nor did he get angry. His silence unnerved her more than anything. The Hound always had something to say. She almost hoped he would call her a stupid little bird just so she would know what he was thinking, but he said nothing.

 

She finished her meal without saying another word. The Hound rose to prepare his bed on the grass, and Sansa stood up to get her blanket as well. As she spread out her blanket and bunched up a cloak for a pillow, the Hound summoned her attention.

 

“Sansa,” he called out.

 

She froze. Very slowly, she turned around to look at him. He never called her by her name before, except maybe once or twice in the presence of his betters. Even then, he had only called her _Lady Sansa_. She stared at him like she had never seen him before in her life, blinking away the shock.

 

The Hound scowled, and it twisted his face in an unpleasant fashion. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “Come here.” Sansa took a step forward. “Bring your blanket and cloak,” he added. Quickly, she turned around and scooped them up in her arms before walking over to him.

 

The Hound lifted a finger at her face and spoke very sternly. “You can lie beside me tonight, but I have rules. One. No talking. I want to sleep, not have a tea party. Two. No writhing. It keeps me awake. Three. No damn _wiggling_. In fact don’t move at all. Just be still. Understood?”

 

Sansa’s brow creased and she opened her mouth to say _that’s a lot of rules_ , but she clamped her mouth shut and hastily nodded. “Yes,” she said.

 

“Good.” The Hound turned away from her to finish, and she helped him. Once their spot was made and he took his place on the ground, Sansa quickly joined him. Instead of lying beside him, she cuddled close to him under the blankets and put her head on his shoulder and her arm over his chest. He tensed up immediately beneath her, but her eyes were already closed so she didn’t have to see the look on his face.

 

After a long time, he allowed his arm to encircle her back and rested his hand on her shoulder.

 

 _No talking_ , Sansa thought, chanting the rules in her head. _No writhing_. _No wiggling_. _Be still_. _No talking, no writhing, no wiggling_. _Be still_. She fell asleep to the chanting inside of her head, drifting into a comfortable sleep she hadn’t had in what felt like weeks.

 

When she woke up, their limbs were an entangled mess beneath the covers. The wind blew chilly, and the sky was still black with a smattering of stars sprinkled above the tree tops. Sansa lied on her back, her head resting in the crook of his neck. One of her legs was hooked over one of his, but then one of his was over hers, and he had one of his big arms thrown over her middle.

 

It was uncomfortable, so Sansa shifted as gently as possible so as to not wake him, and he made a deep noise in his sleep, rolling over onto his back and taking his arm away from her. Sansa’s heart fell. Half of his warmth escaped her, so she curled up close against his side and bundled the blanket up to her cheek. Sansa looked up at his face in the moonlight; it was barely visible, but the good side of his face was the only part in her view, and she thought, wildly, that as he lay there unimposing and asleep, he seemed softened and almost gentle and he no longer looked as ugly as he did in the daylight with his scars when he scowled and made those horrible, cruel faces at her.

 

The Hound was no Ser Loras, nor was he golden and beautiful like Ser Jaime, but he was sharp and dark haired and there was something, dare she think it, almost handsome about him. Sansa stared at him, mesmerized, and reached out her hand tentatively to touch his face to make sure it was real. When her finger barely grazed his skin, she jerked her hand back and he stirred.

 

Sansa buried her face against him and hoped he hadn’t woken up. She didn’t want him to be mad at her because she broke one of his rules. His hand rubbed against her arm in his sleep, and he rolled back onto his side, facing her.

 

When he remained asleep, Sansa allowed herself to breathe. Her hand was pressed to his chest, and she curled and uncurled her fingers against his jerkin, closing her eyes. He smelt of blood, smoke, sweat and salt—and underneath it all, he held the distinct scent of a man. Sansa felt her heart quicken in her ribcage, and wondered if this was how it was like to share a marriage bed.

 

She pushed away her thoughts, but she could not still her fingers. Again and again, they curled and uncurled against his jerkin right above the area of his heart until she fell asleep and her movements stilled, her breath slowing down and her heart evening out its beat.


	2. Through the Riverlands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa leaves with the Hound during the Battle of Blackwater, and everything that follows after. Follows an alternate ‘A Storm of Swords’ plot. Presented in three parts, spanning over the course of a few years. Blackwater AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to try my hand at a “what would happen if” canon divergence. What if Sansa never closes her eyes and the Hound never pulls a knife on her, and everything that comes as a result of those choices. I apologize in advance for this chapter because it’s somewhat dark and sad. Also, for fun, I wanted to say there is an interesting reason behind when Sansa calls him ‘the Hound’ and when she calls him by his name, so her transition between the two isn’t an accident. It was definitely done on purpose. ;)

_ii._

 

The rest of the journey to Winterfell continued without much incident. Sansa began to wear a cowl with her cloak to hide her auburn hair. They passed through small villages, ravaged lands, and sometimes holdfasts of nothing but crows and corpses. The Hound kept off the road like he said was best, but they encountered a few small groups that thought to harm them and steal her. The Hound cut through them all like butter, and each night she held him closer. Sometimes he complained, but most of the time, he let her.

 

Something was wrong when they arrived at Winterfell. The Hound brought Stranger to a halt, and Sansa looked out as she clung to his back atop the horse. She was afraid, but the Hound trotted them right up to the city’s walls and told her to wait outside and stay on Stranger—and to run, if she had to.

 

When he came back, he looked grim and lost. He mounted Stranger once more and said, “There’s nothing here for you, girl.” He steered the horse in the wrong direction, fleeing back the way they came.

 

“Where is everybody? What happened?” Sansa asked him, worried for her brothers, for Bran and Rickon.

 

“They’re all dead,” the Hound said, and Sansa cried for weeks. He stopped complaining at night when she clung to him, and he didn’t snap at her when he got angry. He walked away, or hit a tree. He offered her the first slice of any food, but most of the time she wouldn’t eat and he had to threaten to force-feed her to get her to swallow something for sustenance.

 

“I’m taking you to your mother in Riverrun,” he finally said one day.

 

Sansa barely heard him, but she nodded her head slowly as she chewed on a berry. The Hound prepared his bedroll for the night when they were finished eating, and Sansa wordlessly slipped beneath his covers without asking or being offered this time. She hugged him tightly and began to cry. Her whole body shook with sobs, and at first he didn’t know what to do. Eventually, he put an arm around her and tried to coax her with a few pats on the shoulder, but it did no good.

 

“You have still got your mother,” he told her. “And your brother, Robb. Don’t cry so much, girl.”

 

She fell asleep with his strong arm around him. When she woke up, she felt somewhat better. They resumed their journey to Riverrun, taking only a slightly different route south than what they took going north. They encountered less trouble along the way this time than they did riding north for Winterfell. The Riverlands, she had heard on the way north, were ravaged by war and lawlessness, but they narrowly avoided most of the trouble by keeping far away from the river and the people. The journey would take longer going that way, but it was safer.

 

They narrowly avoided a few bandits, and whispers of a Brotherhood reached their ears the further they went south, but they never came across them. For all of this, Sansa was grateful. She remembered each night to say her prayers, and the gods must have heard her, for the clouds came each time and blotted out the stars and moon, laying a blanket of darkness over them to hide them from the world.

 

Eventually, the clouds stayed one morning. The weather took a nasty turn. The skies grew darker, and thunder rumbled the ground with the imminent threat of a storm. While riding down a small path, they spotted in the far distance a traveling army. The Hound halted Stranger and eyed them from a distance. Sansa saw the banners waving the direwolf of her House, and she lifted her arm, pointing eagerly at it. “It’s my brother,” she told him, looking back at the Hound behind her.

 

“We’re riding direct to your brother,” he said. “Not to his men. They’ll kill me, and gods know what they’d do to you.”

 

“Robb would never—”

 

“There’s monsters on both sides, girl. Robb will kill them after. Give them a nice slow death. Be sure of that. But he can’t stop them from raping you if he’s not there, and I can’t fight a thousand men.”

 

Sansa said no more, but looked back at the passing army through the trees. Her heart sank. “What do we do, then?”

 

“We follow them wherever they’re going,” the Hound said, and he turned Stranger around and followed the same path as the army. Eventually, they crossed paths with a peasant and a young girl riding a cloaked wagon, and the Hound left her on Stranger while he went to talk to the man. Sansa watched as they exchanged something, and the peasant and his daughter took whatever it was the Hound offered, untied their horse, and turned around to head back in the direction they came from.

 

The Hound returned to her and led Stranger to the wagon. He fastened the warhorse in place, and offered his hand to Sansa to help her down. They both sat on the bench of the wagon, which was a welcome change from riding on a horse all day, and Sansa looked back to peek under the cloth that covered the back. It was full of baskets of food: breads, cheese, dried and pickled meats. Sansa’s stomach rumbled in hunger.

 

“Can we eat some of it?” she asked.

 

“Yes, you can eat some of it, but best be on our way first,” he said.

 

The going was slower with the wagon than when it was just the two of them on Stranger’s back. Sansa watched the trees creep by at a slow rate, and she reached into the back of the wagon to grab a small loaf of bread and a piece of dried meat to nibble on as they passed safely out of distance from the marching army.

 

“Do you have some water?” she asked him.

 

“There’s no more water for now,” he told her. “Just wine. Here.” He passed her his wineskin. Sansa crinkled her nose at the smell, but drank of it. It was bitter and unpleasant, and she coughed as it went down. The Hound laughed. “Drink that slow. It’s strong wine. Too strong for a little bird like you.”

 

Sansa didn’t like being called a little bird like he meant ‘little girl,’ but she followed his advice and drank slowly all the same. The wine was strong and sour, and her near empty belly made her feel sick and dizzy as her stomach began to churn. A fine sheet of rain began to fall from above, and Sansa pulled her hood over her head. It wasn’t long before it poured in great lashings through the sky. Sansa was trembling and drenched within seconds. Lighting arced somewhere above her, and Sansa looked up briefly, squinting against the rainfall.

 

Despite the storm, they continued at a slow pace until a river came into view beyond the trees, and the Hound brought their wagon to a stop.

 

“That’s the Twins,” he said, and Sansa looked out to see the head of the army gathered around the base of a heavily fortified castle connected by a bridge to another castle on the other side of the river.

 

“They are going north, then,” Sansa said, looking over at the Hound. “To Winterfell, aren’t they? They will have heard what’s happened, and they are heading back.”

 

The Hound’s look darkened. “Could be,” he said. “We can pass through just the same as them. Pretend we’re bringing this food to the Lord of the Crossing. They will take it, and then we will find your brother.”

 

Sansa expected to be happy again to see her family, but she grew sad all of a sudden. There was another far more prominent thought in her head. Once they found her brother, she would be parted from the Hound. Even after everything he had done for her, this would be the very last that they saw of each other. Sansa looked up at him as she sat there on the wagon beside him, watching him spy on the army with an unreadable expression on his face. He was soaked as well, his drenched cowl hanging low over his face, but he didn’t even seem to acknowledge the rain.

 

“I can talk to Robb,” she suddenly said, blurting out her thoughts. “You can work for him, I’m sure of it. He’ll be very glad to have you.”

 

The Hound removed his gaze from the army to look at her. His expression remained unreadable. “And why would you do that, little bird?” he rasped.

 

Sansa opened her mouth, but found no words to come out. She closed it, biting on her lower lip, and turned her gaze to look at the men crawling like ants across the Trident, setting up their tents and making camp. She watched banners go up, whipping in the wind and rain. Sansa glanced back at the Hound. His sharp eyes were still on her.

 

She lowered her gaze to his lap where he held the reins, and she laid one of her hands on top of his. Very gently, she squeezed.

 

“You don’t have to go,” Sansa said, and despite her words, she sounded so unsure. She looked up at him again to meet his gaze. “You can stay.”

 

He glanced down at her hands, and then his eyes were back on the army. He shook the reins, causing her hand to drop from his, and Stranger left the path and pulled the wagon towards the castles. “We’ll see about that,” the Hound said, though he seemed to be speaking more to himself than to her.

 

They were halfway across the land with the rain lashing down on them when chaos erupted ahead. The tents erected up along the grounds were all cut down, falling upon the men within them. Swords were drawn. Arrows shot through the sky. Sansa’s hand flew to her mouth. “What’s happening?” she asked in fear, and the Hound drew his sword, quickly cutting Stranger free and jumping down from the wagon.

 

He extended his hand to her. “Come, girl,” he barked. “Quick!”

 

Sansa took his hand, and he yanked her down from the wagon. The Hound lifted her easily and placed her on Stranger. He mounted the horse in front of her, took the reins, and wheeled the beast around. They went off in the opposite direction. The rain beat against her face, and Sansa never even knew she was crying until long after they stopped and took shelter against a large tree far away from the Twins.

 

She didn’t even know how long they had ridden. It felt like hours. Stranger was making worrisome noises, and the Hound tried to calm him down. When Stranger was tended to, he knelt beside her by the tree. Sansa’s back rested against its trunk, her eyes staring down at her lap. She hadn’t said two words since they fled from the Green Fork.

 

“Girl,” he said. When she didn’t answer him, he said, “Sansa, look at me.”

 

Sansa looked up. Her eyes were sore. They were probably red and swollen from crying. “They’re dead, aren’t they?” she asked him, believing in the very worst. “That was Robb’s army. All dying . . . ”

 

“Might be,” the Hound said. “Might not be. We don’t know anything yet. We’ll get to a village. By the time we find one, news should be spreading.”

 

“And if they’re dead?” she asked, looking down at her lap again. Her voice was toneless as she fidgeted with her hands.

 

The Hound was silent at first. “We’ll find more family, someone to bring you to.”

 

“My family is all dead,” Sansa said flatly.

 

“Look at me,” he repeated, more firmly this time.

 

She obeyed the command, but her eyes stared at him unseeing. The Hound stared back at her for a short while, and then he rose to his feet and stalked off, cursing as he went. Sansa cast her gaze downward again, ignoring the outside world for as long as he let her dare. He got them back up on the horse after their rest, and they were off again, riding like mad until nightfall came upon them and they had to stop for sleep.

 

Sansa was unusually quiet for weeks. She didn’t cry again. She started to feel numb inside as if there was a hole in her that would never be filled again, an emptiness where her mother and father and brothers used to be. Her entire family was dead, all but her bastard brother and maybe, just maybe Arya. She didn’t know what happened to Arya, though. For all she knew, Arya was dead too.

 

The Hound was unnerved by her silence. It made him more tense than usual. Sansa, all out of tears, began to find that mourning made her angry. It made her angrier than anything else in the world. As he ate quietly across from her one night, she picked up a small stone, nothing too big, and threw it at him. It hit him square in the chest. It wasn’t like it would have hurt him. The Hound stood up from his seat on the ground, glaring at her with cold steel in his eyes.

 

“What the bloody hell was that for?” he swore at her, and Sansa, unable to explain her sudden fury, wanted to _hit_ him.

 

It was more than that, though.

 

She wanted to hit him, but she wanted him to hit _her_ because of it. She needed a different kind of pain to take her mind off of the real pain, the pain of losing her family. Sansa couldn’t explain it. She couldn’t understand it, but she couldn’t deal with everything that was falling on her. It hurt too much. It filled her up to the brim with grief, and she thought she could lay down right there that night and never wake up again.

 

But not without a fight first, even if it was with the wrong person.

 

She picked up another rock, bigger this time, and chucked it at him. The Hound ducked, and it flew by his head. Rage filled his entire face, twisting it into an ugly mockery of the kindness he had shown her earlier, and he descended on her like lightning. She stood up quickly, but not to run away. Sansa slapped him hard across the face when he reached her, and the Hound grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.

 

“What in _seven hells_ is wrong with you?” he ground out. His breath stunk of wine. She wondered very briefly, like she never wondered about him before, how much he had been drinking.

 

Sansa spat in his face.

 

She expected him to backhand her like Joffrey’s knights used to do, hoping he was drunk enough to be violent with her, but the Hound only shoved her away from him. Sansa lost her balance and fell to the ground, landing on a branch with her hip. A sharp ache shot through her side. _Maybe_ , she hoped wildly, _maybe he’ll kill me_. He came at her and grabbed her by the front of her dress, yanking the upper half of her body upright to face him. His eyes gleamed like a dog’s in the firelight.

 

“I’m warning you, girl,” he growled, and Sansa kicked him.

 

The Hound shoved her down and pinned her to the wet ground. Sansa struggled, hitting him and clawing at him, until they were a mess of limbs on the ground fighting for the upper hand. No matter how many scratches she laid on him or how many blows he took, he never hit her back. He kept trying to pin her in place so he could force her to be still.

 

Sansa struggled until she was too tired to fight anymore. The Hound just glared at her from above, holding her until she fell limp in his grasp.

 

“Are you done?” he asked, and even then his voice sounded dangerous.

 

Sansa bit into her bottom lip. She began to shake, slowly at first, until it took over her whole body, and then she was sobbing. The Hound released her and stood up, and she was in his arms within seconds. He carried her over to the blankets and laid her down, wrapping her up until she was as bundled as a baby. He didn’t lie down beside her. Instead, he sat on the ground, drank from his wineskin, and stood watch over her. Sansa rolled over onto her side and curled into a ball, crying herself to sleep.

 

When she woke up, her back and hip were aching and her head was pounding. She even felt feverish. Sansa tried to sit up, but rolled over and vomited up what little she had eaten the night before.

 

“You’re sick,” the Hound said in his gruff voice, and he hoisted her up onto the horse. “Sit up,” he commanded, and she followed his orders. The Hound then led Stranger through the forest into an open clearing. They walked until they came upon the outskirts of a small farmland.

 

It was another barn, but this one was big and spacious and had a second story that was reachable only by ladder. The Hound carried her to the top, put her down near the wall, and scraped some of the loose hay strewn across the boards into a small pile between her and the edge to hide her from view.

 

“Keep out of sight and don’t make a single noise,” he warned her. “Stay here until I get back.”

 

Sansa had no strength to argue with him, so she did as he said. She fell asleep waiting on him. When he came back and placed a wet rag on her forehead, she jolted upright in alarm. The Hound pressed a hand into her shoulder to lower her back down. “Easy,” he said. “You have cried yourself sick. This’ll make it better. Drink.”

 

He pushed a rough wooden cup to her lips, and she drank. It was strong enough to choke her, but she managed to gulp the concoction down. It burned her throat, and then it soothed the ache left behind from vomiting. Sansa thought she tasted wine in it, but whatever it was, it was made to knock her out cold. She faded in and out of conscious. For how long, she wasn’t sure.

 

When she awoke to darkness, she found her fever had broken. She was covered in a dabbled sheet of sweat upon her skin, but cold, exposed to the night air with nothing more than a thin white undergown between her and the world. Sansa quickly covered herself up, not daring to wonder how her clothes had changed in her sleep, and looked around to see her surroundings.

 

The Hound was asleep beside her, an open wineskin beside him.

 

There was a sharp ache in her chest. He had cared for her in her sickness, and it made her guilty to think of how she had treated him that night before she fell ill. He was only trying to help her get home. It wasn’t his fault there wasn’t a home to go back to anymore. She had no right to take it out on him like that.

 

With her cloak bundled around her, Sansa quietly got up and searched for the ladder. When she found it, she descended each rung until she reached the bottom and searched for water. She was as thirsty as a horse, and she wanted something to wash the sweat and stench off her skin.

 

There was no water in the barn, so Sansa peered out of the big doors into the night fields beyond them. She hoped for a stream close by, or a bucket, even a trough. She saw nothing, so she left the safety of the barn to find a source of running water. It was dark, so she wasn’t afraid. Sansa figured in the dark she had less of a chance of being seen as she scurried off towards the trees.

 

Sansa found a small stream not too far into the forest, and she rejoiced by stripping down and scooping up the cold water to splash it all over her. It froze her to the bone and made her teeth chatter, but it was worth it. She drank up what she could scoop into her hands and washed her hair in the rushing water among the rocks.

 

As she rung her hair dry, a hand clamped over her shoulder. Sansa screamed, but a second hand was already over her mouth and it drowned out her cry.

 

“Are you stupid, girl?” his all too familiar voice hissed into her ear, and Sansa felt him remove his hands from her, draping her in his cloak. She clutched the fabric around herself to hide her nudity, and he snatched her clothes up from the ground. The Hound grabbed her arm and pulled her onto her feet next, dragging her with him back to the barn.

 

“I was only thirsty,” she said. “And I wanted a bath.”

 

“You could have woke me up for that,” he snapped.

 

Sansa was offended. “Well, maybe I wanted some privacy—”

 

He rounded on her, seething. His sudden stop almost caused her to run into him, and his hand gripped her arm to the point that it hurt. “You don’t get privacy anymore. They have killed your entire family. Do you _think_ they aren’t looking for you, too?”

 

Sansa opened and closed her mouth for what felt like the hundredth time around him. She was starting to feel like a fish out of water every time they had a conversation. She clutched his cloak tighter around her body, aware of how naked she was underneath it, and still managed to give him an icy stare with her chin held high. “Of course they’re looking for me, too,” she said with a tone equal in challenge, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t have a _bath_.”

 

The look on his face was murderous. He bent over and scooped her up with one arm, hoisting her onto his shoulder. Sansa gasped as he lifted her, and suddenly her fists were colliding with his back.

 

“Put me _down_ ,” she demanded, but he ignored her. She gave up the fight in less than a minute. Sansa wouldn’t dare yell or continue on as they drew closer to the barn. She wasn’t sure who lived nearby, and she didn’t want anyone to hear her, but it didn’t make her any happier about being carried around like a doll.

 

He dropped her unceremoniously onto her feet once they were inside, ushering her up the ladder to their hiding place at the top. Sansa sat down and wrapped the cloak more tightly around her small frame, shivering from the cold and being wet. The Hound passed her clothes to her. “Get dressed,” he said, and he returned to his sleeping roll and put his back to her.

 

Sansa kept her eyes on him as she dressed herself back into her clothes. Her hair was still damp, but she tried to dry it as best as she could with his cloak. Still shivering, she crawled over to where he lay and pressed herself flush against his back and tugged the blankets over her. She shook until her teeth chattered, willing the cold to go away.

 

He turned over, putting his large and warm arm around her. “Come here, girl,” he rasped, and Sansa snuggled into his embrace as he cupped her head under his chin and rubbed his hand down her arm to get her blood flowing again. Within minutes, she was warm again and her arm had snaked itself over his middle and clutched his side.

 

“I’m sorry,” she said against his chest, her voice muffled. Sansa wasn’t sure why she was apologizing, but she felt she ought to. _He is only trying to do his best_ , she reminded herself.

 

“It’s all right, little bird,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

 

“Sansa,” she suddenly said to him, though she didn’t know why. “My name is Sansa.”

 

His chest shook, and it took her a moment to realize he was laughing. “And what’s mine?”

 

“The Hou—oh,” her voice fell.

 

His chest shook harder, and she could hear his raspy laugh this time. “So, are we the Hound and the little bird? Or do you want me to call you by your name?”

 

“My name,” she whispered, and her fingers toyed with his jerkin.

 

“So, what’s mine?”

 

Sansa opened her mouth to speak, and she paused mid-breath. There was something strange about calling him by his name, but it was not wholly unpleasant. Still, it was far more personal than calling him the Hound. She supposed, though, that was the point.

 

“Sandor,” she breathed out against his chest, and his hand stilled its rubbing pattern against her arm. He picked it up again a moment later almost as if nothing had happened to stop it in the first place.

 

“Go to sleep, girl,” he told her softly, and Sansa closed her eyes and let out a deep breath.

 

“Okay,” she murmured, and she let the darkness take her.

 

They spent only two more days at the barn, making sure to keep out of sight. Sansa would wait in hiding during the day as the Hound went out hunting and searching for other foods as well as supplies that they needed for a longer trip. They were short of a lot of things they needed, he said, and Sansa understood, so she didn’t complain. She was beginning to think no one lived nearby, for they hadn’t seen a soul since they arrived on the first day.

 

In the middle of the third night, though, Sansa awoke to a noise halfway between a squeal and a giggle. Her eyes shot open quickly, and she found she had rolled away from the Hound, but one of her legs was still tangled up with his at the ankle. She blinked away the sleep from her eyes and rubbed them, and the noise came again. Sansa didn’t move for a whole minute until she heard a man laughing, deep and sonorous.

 

“Don’t wiggle too much,” he said, “or I won’t get in.”

 

Sansa furrowed her brow in confusion. She rolled onto her stomach, gently freed her foot from the Hound’s legs, and crawled toward the edge of the barn’s second story. The voices were coming from below at the bottom of the barn. She wondered if it was the owners, and then her heart seized up with fear. What if her and Sandor were caught? What, then?

 

She swallowed past a catch in her throat. She shouldn’t panic too much. As long as she was quiet, no one would hear her. No one would even know she was there.

 

Peeking over the ledge, Sansa couldn’t see a whole lot in the faint moonlight from the rafters. She saw two bodies struggling with each other down below, and when her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she realized with a shock that they were naked. Her mouth fell open, and she tried to make out what was going on. It was then that she noticed the man was between the woman’s legs, his hands holding open her knees, and then he thrust forward—a deep moan escaped the woman’s lips, and her head fell back.

 

 Sansa had never seen it before in her life, but she knew what was going on now.

 

It felt wrong to watch, like she was invading someone’s bedchamber in their home on their wedding night, and her face flushed with heat. As much as she wanted to look away, she couldn’t bring herself to crawl back to the Hound with the knowledge of what was happening below. Some part of her was locked on the couple, intrigued despite the wrongness of watching in secret. The woman really enjoyed it. Her moans were quiet at first, but they were growing louder.

 

Sansa swallowed, her tongue darting out to lick her dry lips. She crawled forward on her elbows a little bit more to get a better view.

 

Suddenly, a hand grabbed her from behind, clamping down on her mouth to prevent a scream, and drew her back into the shadows away from the ledge. Sansa struggled at first out of instinct until she realized it was only the Hound. He didn’t speak. The barn was so quiet except for the woman’s growing moans and cries that he would have been heard, and he kept his hand over Sansa’s mouth as gesture for her to keep quiet as well.

 

Sansa was tense all over, taut as a bowstring, but she leaned into the Hound’s embrace and sat completely still. She grabbed for purchase on something, anything, and her fingers ended up clutching Sandor’s thighs where she sat. Her breathing escalated quickly. With the woman’s echoing noises of pleasure, the man’s groans, and the Hound’s hand pressed hard over her mouth and the solid press of his chest against her back, Sansa felt an ache growing in her tummy.

 

She shifted uncomfortably, and when she noticed she was wet between her legs, she panicked. For a moment Sansa feared she lost her bladder, and her face burned with embarrassment, but then she shifted again and slipped off of the Hound’s leg and landed in the middle of his lap onto something hard that caused an odd throbbing sensation to pass through her _there_.

 

His hand tightened on her mouth. He seized up behind her, and Sansa—for one brief moment—saw herself as the girl down below with Sandor thrusting in her.

 

She made a small, soft sound in her throat, splaying her fingers against his thighs, and Sandor moved quickly but quietly. He had her down against the boards, looming above her, his eyes glinting in the shafts of moonlight that split the rafters above his head. He brought his free hand to his lips to hold a finger there as he glared at her, and she understood, so she nodded. He released his hand from her mouth, and she thought wildly that he was going to kiss her.

 

Sandor pulled away from her, laying his body down beside her without a word.

 

Sansa’s heart fell.

 

She turned onto her side, and eventually, the woman’s cries grew louder before abruptly coming to an end. She heard laughter, distant talking, and then the creak of a door below. The Hound rose, and Sansa heard him walking around before his hand came down to touch her arm. “Sansa,” he said.

 

She slowly looked up at him, still halfway curled into herself. “Yes?”

 

A noticeable air of trepidation arose between them. He stared at her for a moment. “Come back to bed,” he finally said, returning to the sleeping roll.

 

It took Sansa a few minutes before she would get up and return to his side under the blankets. It felt awkward now in a way it hadn’t been before, and Sansa wondered, without getting too close to him this time, if that was something the Hound ever thought about whenever they laid together. If he did, he never showed it. He was always so chivalrous with her.

 

“What’s wrong?” he suddenly asked, startling her from her thoughts.

 

“What?”

 

“Don’t play dumb,” he snapped, irritated. “What’s wrong with you?”

 

“I don’t know,” she said weakly, trying to think of what to say to him. “I guess I’m uncomfortable—”

 

The Hound snorted at that. “Why were you staring, then?”

 

“I was _not_ ,” she denied, affronted by the idea, no matter how true it was. “I heard noises—”

 

“Oh, you heard noises all right,” he said. “You knew what they were doing, same as me. I’m not the one who sneaked over to have a—”

 

Sansa grew bold. She sat upright on her elbow and slapped his arm. “You do _not_ talk to me that way,” she said, though her voice shook with unsteadiness. “I am Lady Sansa of House Stark. You are to show me some respect.” Sansa was suddenly terrified the moment the last word left her lips. She had no idea where the impulsiveness came from to talk to him that way, or how he would react to it. He was big enough to crush her like a bug. Though to be honest, she no longer believed he would ever do such a thing to her.

 

Sandor eyed her in the dark, but he made no move to get up and get her back for her actions. He just lied there, silently, and at last he turned his head and closed his eyes. “Go to sleep, Sansa. We have been here too long already. We leave in the morning.” He turned onto his side, his back to her, and Sansa felt her heart fall yet again. Inexplicably, she wanted him to pull her into his arms like he did every other night.

 

Tonight, he was keeping his distance again.

 

It was hot in the barn. Sansa lied down on her back, but she couldn’t fall asleep. Time passed by too slowly. She was still wet between her legs, and it was uncomfortable to her. She wondered what it was, and more out of curiosity than disgust, she pulled up her dress and slid a hand into her smallclothes. Sansa had to open her legs to reach it, but when her fingers pressed down, a pleasant shock went through her body. She gasped softly, and then she looked over to make sure Sandor was still on his side with his back to her.

 

When it was safe, Sansa began to explore and touch herself. It was the first time in her life she ever even thought about it, and she wondered why no one had explained it all to her before. It felt good, and she spread her legs open further to touch herself more intimately, moaning when her finger rubbed against a particularly sensitive nub.

 

It felt good slow, but she rubbed it a little quicker, and a shaky whimper filled her throat. It felt even better like that, she thought, closing her eyes. She opened her mouth to breathe through her lips, ragged breaths riddled with soft and quiet moans no one should hear, and she thought of the man pushing himself into the woman.

 

Sansa probed with her finger, not knowing where to put it and feeling a little silly that she didn’t know, but she found it at last and thought about pushing it in when . . .

 

“What are you crying abou—” Sandor paused in mid-word as he sat up and looked over at her. Sansa scrambled to pull down her dress and cover her smallclothes. She didn’t have time to move her hands, which pressed down above her private area as if to hide it from sight if her dress could not. Her legs were still arched and exposed up to her thighs, though clenched together tightly.

 

Sandor stared her down, his eyes stopping on her legs. Sansa swallowed nervously, feeling a heat build up between her legs again. He was looking at her, she realized, like the man looked at the barn girl. Her face flushed hot, and she turned her head so she wouldn’t have to see him.

 

“What were you doing, girl?”

 

Sansa was horrified. She wanted to lie to him, but she knew he would only embarrass her for lying, so she struggled for a moment before answering with the truth. “Touching myself,” came her small voice, and she would have sworn she had a fever again from the way her face felt after admitting that.

 

Sandor swore in a hiss, and Sansa looked over at him. He rubbed his face, his hand stilling on his mouth. His eyes weren’t on her anymore. They were staring ahead of himself, focusing on something else. “And why were you doing that?” he asked, his voice low. It sent tingles through her shoulders and down her arms and to her hands before reaching her fingertips, where they were pressed down between her legs.

 

“Because it felt good,” she whispered.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Sandor hissed again. Sansa couldn’t tell if he was angry or if it was something else. He didn’t seem angry. He sat so still in place, refusing to look at her, and she remembered the hardness in his lap she fell onto and knew what it was and what it meant, and it stirred all sorts of new things inside of her. Things she never considered before that could be possible, but Sandor never acted on any of it.

 

Sansa slowly released her hands from her dress, sitting up carefully. There was a little bit of distance between them, but it wasn’t much. She laid her hand on his knee, and he jolted at her touch. It startled her. Sandor didn’t pull away, though, nor did he get up to storm off. With her resolve building up again, she curled her fingers around his and glided her thumb over the rough skin of his hand.

 

“Do you want to touch me?” she whispered, afraid to speak it too loudly. In truth she wanted him to touch her, but she was being as brazen enough as it was just by asking him.

 

Sandor sat still beside her. His eyes stared ahead of him, refusing to look at her. He rubbed his chin again at the stubble that grew on the good side of his face. “Even if I wanted to, little bird, it doesn’t mean I should,” he answered her, and even Sansa could tell it was a weak answer. There was so much more beneath the surface. He started calling her ‘little bird’ when she was a child, but Sansa was starting to feel it had been a while since she was a child. She was a maiden now, a maiden flowered, and he had recognized it.

 

Carefully, Sansa took his hand in hers. She was afraid he would jerk away, and she would lose all of her resolve, but in the beams of shredded moonlight in a barn far away from the world they both knew, Sandor made no move to resist her. With the slowest movements possible, Sansa guided his hand towards her. She placed it gently upon the bare skin of her upper thigh, milky white in the moonlight compared to his darker, sun-kissed skin.

 

She glided her fingers over his hand ever so softly, and in response, he curled his fingers into her skin, gripping her thigh. Sparks shot through her, and she moaned softly at the slight touch. With her chest heaving up and down from each deep breath she took, Sansa slowly spread her legs to give him access to what she really wanted him to touch.

 

His hand slid down her thigh until his fingers moved smoothly over her smallclothes, and Sansa whimpered aloud, shuddering at the contact. What self-control he had was gone. Before she knew it, Sandor was on top of her, his hand pushing aside the small piece of cloth that covered her dignity, and then he was there, touching her in the most intimate area of her body. Sansa gasped, reaching up to grab his shoulders.

 

Sandor slid a finger between her wetness, and then he was working his hand against her. She wrapped her small legs around the bulk of his body. He was so big, she feared he might crush her, but he kept a distance between them even as he touched her, hovering just over her like a shadow. The arm he used to prop himself up he took and hooked under her leg, lifting it higher. Sansa bit into her bottom lip, panting and shaking from his ministrations, and when he pushed a finger inside of her, she gasped and cried out at once. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders.

 

Sansa lost herself in the sensations each slide of his finger brought upon her, and she closed her eyes, allowing herself to moan freely now like she hadn’t before. She heard him hiss, and he bent over her with his weight to use his hand and pull free her breasts from her gown. Sandor covered her nipple with his mouth, and Sansa gasped in shock, threading her fingers through his hair and gripping the back of his head.

 

She felt like an utter wanton, like the woman below, as she bucked her hips against his hand, but it felt so good she didn’t want it to stop.

 

Then, suddenly, his hand was gone, and she made a small noise of protest in her throat. Sansa looked down at him as he pulled back from her breast, but he wasn’t looking up at her. It took a moment before his hand was between her legs again, and Sansa willingly opened them more for him. He pushed something against her entrance, then, something hot and warm but too big to be his hand, and Sansa’s eyes went wide with fear.

 

She had no time to speak. With a loud cry of pain from her throat, he had thrust himself wholly inside of her.

 

It was her maidenhead, her maidenhead, gone.

 

“No, get off of me,” Sansa cried, the tears blurring her vision. She shoved at the Hound’s shoulders. It was weak, she knew, because he was too big to fight, but she prayed to the Seven that he would stop. He did, almost immediately, withdrawing himself from her and backing away. All of his weight had left her. The Hound disappeared from above, but Sansa didn’t care where he had gone off to as long as he wasn’t on top of her anymore.

 

She was all alone on the floor, pulling her dress down to cover herself as she cried, and she rolled into a ball as if it would protect her somehow. He didn’t have her permission, but he took it anyway. She never said he could have her maidenhead. It was meant for her husband. One day she was going to get married, and her husband was supposed to have it on their wedding night . . .

 

“Sansa,” he rasped, quietly from the corner.

 

“Go away,” she told him, her voice shaking. “Just go away . . . ”

 

She didn’t hear his voice again, but she heard him retreat further away, and then there was silence. Eventually, Sansa reached over for the blanket left behind and wrapped it around herself. She fell asleep that night all alone under a million slivers of silver beams to protect her.


	3. From Inn to Narrow Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa leaves with the Hound during the Battle of Blackwater, and everything that follows after. Follows an alternate ‘A Storm of Swords’ plot. Presented in three parts, spanning over the course of a few years. Blackwater AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to try my hand at a “what would happen if” canon divergence. What if Sansa never closes her eyes and the Hound never pulls a knife on her, and everything that comes as a result of those choices. This is the final chapter with all of the special cameos. I really enjoyed writing this story, so I hope you all loved reading it. <3

_iii._

 

When she woke up in the morning, Sansa was sore and hurting. She tried her best to ignore it as she sat up, and then she noticed the Hound wasn’t there. Her heart leapt into her throat, and Sansa quickly scrambled to her feet. Everything was gone, everything but the blanket wrapped around her, and she brought her hands to her mouth as she started to panic. She couldn’t breathe. Tears fell from her eyes, and she clutched onto her arms.

 

She didn’t even bother with picking up the blanket. Sansa hurried down the ladder until her feet touched the bottom and she turned around and ran _smack_ into somebody. Sansa gasped and pulled away, nearly tripping on her own two feet to escape the big burly frame of a man, until she looked up and saw who it was and all of her panic turned into joy in way she did not understand at all.

 

Sansa threw her arms around Sandor, burying her face against his chest.

 

He didn’t hug her back. He kept his arms down at his sides, and when she pulled away to look at him, she smelt the liquor on him and saw the dazed look in his eyes. _Where did he get wine from?_ Sansa wondered, remembering his wineskin from just days ago. She had thought he drank it all. She remembered last night as a sudden throb of pain shot through her, and she swallowed past a catch in her throat.

 

“You’re drunk,” Sansa said, and he scowled heavily at her. The Hound grabbed her arm and turned around, walking her out of the barn.

 

“We’re leaving,” he said brusquely.

 

“Where are we going?” she asked, and he lifted her on Stranger before mounting the creature himself. He sat in front of her this time, taking the reins.

 

“I’m bringing you to your aunt in the Eyrie,” he said. “She’ll know what to do with you.”

 

Sansa was hurt by the words. She didn’t know why he was being so mean to her all of a sudden. He was acting like it was her fault what had happened last night, and she didn’t even want to hold onto him but she had to or she would have fallen off the horse. They rode for hours until they reached an inn, and the Hound strapped up Stranger and took her down from the horse.

 

“Stay by me,” he said in his gruff voice, and Sansa obeyed silently. She followed him into the inn, pulling her cloak tightly around herself. The Hound walked up to the bar and spoke with the innkeeper about getting through the Vale to the Eyrie.

 

“Won’t happen,” the innkeeper said. “The hill tribes run the countryside now. No one goes out that way anymore and comes back. They’ll kill you and steal the girl with you. Best not to go that way at all.”

 

The Hound said nothing to that. He ordered a drink, and Sansa had to sit in silence as he drank himself into a stupor. The innkeeper asked if she wanted anything, and she looked to Sandor, but he wasn’t paying any attention to her anymore. “Water, please,” she said. The kind man brought her water free of charge, and Sansa drank it in silence.

 

“Well, who’s this here?” a voice said from behind, and Sansa turned around to see three men standing just before the entrance to the inn. She didn’t recognize any of them, but they were looking straight at the Hound like they knew him and two of them were smiling.

 

“Fancy seeing you here, Clegane,” the second man said. Slowly, putting down his drink, the Hound turned around to face them. He scowled in their direction.

 

“What are you rats doing out here?” the Hound asked them, and one of the men looked at Sansa. The corner of his mouth twitched in a smile, and she quickly averted her eyes.

 

“Look, he’s got a princess with him, Polliver,” the third man said, pointing at Sansa. “Pretty little red-haired thing. Say, she looks like that lost Stark girl, doesn’t she?”

 

“My, my, she does,” the first man, Polliver, said.

 

The second one was eyeing her, and he spoke next. “I hear the Queen has a reward out for her.” He cut his eyes to the Hound. “And you.”

 

“Touch her, and you’re dead men,” the Hound warned them, slowly standing up from his seat at the bar.

 

“Not if you’re dead first,” Polliver said.

 

The Hound drew his steel, and Sansa hurriedly backed away. Two of the men pulled swords, but the third one only had a knife. Sansa realized with a fright that she had nothing, and Sandor was drunk and unsteady on his feet. On his best days, he could overpower three shorter men, but this wasn’t one of his better days.

 

If he lost, she would be back in the hands of the Queen or worse.

 

Steel flashed on steel, and the Hound kicked into one of the men’s chest, sending him flying onto a table. The third man with the knife stayed back while the other with the sword charged at Sandor. They fought, steel clashing against steel, until the first man scrambled back up from the table, slicing Sandor’s leg with his blade. The Hound growled and swung at him, the edge of his sword cracking against the man’s skull before he could even stand up straight again. Blood flew from the blade as it came crashing down on the second man’s sword once more, and it was then in that moment that the one with the knife came at Sandor.

 

Sansa panicked, grabbing a jug from one of the tables and throwing it at the little man with the knife. It hit him in the side and knocked him off course, giving Sandor time to cut the first man in half with his sword right through the chest. There was so much blood; the floor ran wet with it.

 

Once he saw both of his friends dead, the last one alive tried to scramble to his feet while his knife remained forgotten on the floor.

 

Sandor walked up to him slowly, the point of his bloodstained sword aiming down at the other man’s face. “Please, no, I’m just a squire,” he pleaded, but Sandor ran him through with his sword, putting all of his weight on the little man. Sansa watched in horror as the blood pooled into a messy puddle beneath his body, seeping away like slow running river, and the light left his eyes.

 

Lifting his sword out of the dead man’s body, Sandor stumbled and hit one of the tables.

 

Sansa ran quickly to his side and grabbed a hold of his arm. He was far too big to hold up, but she didn’t know what else to do. “Are you hurt?” she asked.

 

“Just my leg, little bird,” he rasped, though when he tried to stand on his own, he stumbled again. Sansa looked up for the innkeeper. The man was standing terrified behind the counter.

 

“Ser,” Sansa called out to him, “please, do you have a room? He’s wounded.”

 

The innkeeper nodded his head quickly, though he didn’t look too happy about it. He helped her guide Sandor to one of the rooms down the hall despite his reluctance, and together they laid him on the bed. Sansa turned to the innkeeper, trying to think of anything she might need. She was going to have to ask him for it.

 

“Do you have any needles, thread, and ointments?” she asked. “I can pay you. I have coin.” The coin was Sandor’s coin, but she was sure he wouldn’t mind in times like these if spending them meant saving his life.

 

When she mentioned payment, the innkeeper nodded his head again. This time there was a spark in his eyes. “I’ll get them for you, miss. Wait right here,” he said, as if she was going anywhere.

 

Sansa immediately began checking Sandor for wounds, looking for blood and holes in the fabric around his chest, his arms, his stomach and sides. She found one on his arm and another deep in his side. Sansa knew about the one on his leg already, and she pulled back the gash in his breeches to see the cut. It was deep as well, bleeding the worst.

 

Sansa had never actually treated anyone’s wounds before, and seeing them made her hands shake uncontrollably, but she had an idea of what to do as long as she could still her hands. She had to sit for a moment, wringing them in her lap until her nerves were somewhat calmed. Then, she stood up and began to undo his jerkin and push it aside before rolling up the hem of the pink-stained tunic. Sandor rolled his head towards her in his daze.

 

“What are you doing?” he asked her, his speech slurred.

 

“Helping you,” Sansa answered him as steadily as her voice would allow. As she lifted his tunic, his wound came into sight. It was a nasty thing of sore pink flesh, oozing red. Sansa brought her forearm to her mouth to prevent herself from getting sick at the sight of it.

 

He snorted at her and rolled his head away. “What for?” he rasped.

 

Sansa didn’t answer him. She left the room to find wine, returned and poured it into a pot above the fireplace. As Sansa struggled to light a fire, the innkeeper came back with the supplies. He took over with lighting the fire, accepted her coin gratefully, and left them alone in the room.

 

Sansa took a rag to soak up the hot wine. When she used it to wash Sandor’s wounds, he gritted his teeth and tried not to cry out. Her hands were stained pink, sore from the heat of handling boiled wine, but she threaded a needle and tried to remember all of her lessons growing up. _It is the same thing_ , she told herself.

 

Slowly, she sewed up his wounds. When she was done, he had passed out on the bed. Sansa sat there in the chair, a bloody needle in her hand, and stared at him with glassy eyes. When she returned to herself, she put everything on the small table by the bed and tried to wash her hands off in the basin. The water turned pink as she scrubbed her hands clean.

 

Sansa knew they couldn’t stay here. They had to leave as soon as possible. If those men were working for the Lannisters, then there were more Lannister men nearby.

 

She would go anywhere in the world as long as it wasn’t back to the Red Keep.

 

Not wishing to disturb him, Sansa made a bed on the floor and rested her head. She couldn’t go anywhere until he woke up again, and so she might as well get some sleep herself. Within no time, Sansa found herself drifting off. No time passed at all between falling asleep and the toe of a boot tapping against her back. Sansa opened her eyes, rolling over to look.

 

Sandor stood above her, a cloaked figure in the darkness. The fire burned low and red in the corner, and it lit his face with a red flame.

 

“Come, girl,” he said, and he extended his hand to her. Sansa looked at his hand before she reached out to take it. He helped her to his feet, but she noticed as he walked that he dragged his leg.

 

“How are you feeling?” Sansa asked him, worried they might not be able to make a journey if he was still unwell.

 

“Better,” he said. “Thanks to you.” He grabbed their things, and then he took her by the arm. “We need to leave.”

 

Sansa wouldn’t move at first, pulling back from his grip. “I won’t go to the Eyrie,” she said firmly. “I will go anywhere but there.”

 

Sandor was still in the firelight. “There is nowhere else, girl.”

 

Sansa knew in that moment she had to make a decision. The Hound wasn’t going to make her decisions for her. All he thought about was bringing her to any distant family member he could find for her, but Sansa knew better than that. It wasn’t safe to be a Stark anymore, and it wasn’t safe to stay here. She held up her chin, even though he wasn’t looking at her.

 

“I am not Sansa Stark,” she said, her voice trembling. “I am just a girl, like you said, and I don’t want to go to the Eyrie. It’s no better a choice than Winterfell or Riverrun. I have no home anymore. I have no family.” Sansa took a deep breath, and her hand clutched his arm. “There must be other places to go. We can find a boat, and . . . ” Her voice trailed off.

 

Sandor turned in the dark to look at her at last. “We? Who said anything about ‘we’?”

 

Quickly, Sansa pulled her arm out of his grasp. “What do you mean?”

 

In the light of the fire that played across his twisted face, Sandor looked torn between one reaction and another. He took a moment of silence to decide for himself before he answered her. “I can’t take care of you, girl. You well enough know that. You’d fare better in the hands of your aunt than me.”

 

Sansa remembered that night, and she looked away from his eyes boring into her. It embarrassed her, brought on a flush borne out of shame, but she did not hate him for it. He had not done it to hurt her, not intentionally, and he obeyed her command to stop. Sansa did not want it repeated, but she still felt she could trust him or he would not have listened to her at all.

 

“I know you better than I know my aunt,” she whispered.

 

“That doesn’t make me better,” he said.

 

“It does,” Sansa told him, meeting his gaze once more. “You listen to me.” Sansa began to shake her head. “My aunt will not.”

 

Sansa thought they stood there for what felt like a year, trying to make decisions in silence and in darkness and in fear. When he took her by the arm again and marched her out of the door of the inn and into the cold night air, they mounted Stranger and took a path down the nearest river until it winded out to sea. They found a passage out to sea aboard a small vessel. It wasn’t as hard as she thought it would be.

 

Once they were aboard, she looked out behind her as the wind whipped through her hair. The land that she once knew drifted further and further away from her until the sea swallowed it whole, never to return it to her again for as long as she lived.

 

 

*

 

 

“You should get up,” Sansa said cheerfully, pulling back the curtains as a wash of bright light flooded into the chamber.

 

Sandor groaned and turned his face into the pillow away from the light of the sun and her. He mumbled something into the pillow, and though Sansa couldn’t make it out, she made her way from the window to his bed and crawled on it.

 

“Come on,” she said, nudging at him with her hand. “Please, get up. They are having a festival today, and I want to go.”

 

Sandor made a rumbling sound deep in his chest and rolled over onto his back, bringing one of his big arms to his eyes to shield them from the light. “Why must you go to a festival?” he asked her, irritated, and Sansa found herself smiling. He drank too much the night before, Sansa was sure of it, so he would not protest too much with her if she did something a little indecent.

 

It had been five years since they crossed the Narrow Sea, and Sandor had treated her very much like the little lady she was the whole time. He never made another move to touch her, but she saw him leave the house late at night every few months or so, going to a whorehouse to get what it was that men wanted from women. Sansa was jealous at first, even hurt to point of crying once, until she remembered she did not like it so much the one time she experienced it and he was only doing what was normal for him. Sandor always came home again, and he always spent every second of his attention on her.

 

If she hadn’t been ready for something like that with him, and she wasn’t at the time, she realized she couldn’t have expected him to not seek it elsewhere. She was older now, though, and things had changed in her mind. A few months ago when he had made to leave the house late at night for his trip to the whorehouse, Sansa had approached him in the foyer and stopped him.

 

“Where are you going?” she had asked him, innocently enough.

 

Sandor had been taken back by her sudden appearance. “What are you doing up?” he had asked right back. “Go back to bed.”

 

“I . . . ” Sansa had begun, finding it hard to finish. “I was hoping maybe you would join me tonight like we used to do before we came here. When we traveled the wild together . . . ” She had found herself smiling at the memory, and Sandor had stared at her across the foyer, his shock dissolving into something else—something Sansa hadn’t been able to identify.

 

“You should go to bed,” he had repeated, but his voice hadn’t been as strong as it was before.

 

Sansa had then crossed the distance between them, doing the first thing that came into her mind. The only thing she had known would get him to say yes. She had wrapped her arms around his middle, laying her head against his chest, and sighed gently. “Please?”

 

Sandor’s stiff posture had fallen soft against her. He had lifted his arms to wrap them around her. “Yes,” he had sighed above her.

 

Sansa had asked him to make a promise that night as she lay curled up against his side, and he had asked her what promise she expected him to make. She played with his tunic, her fingers making patterns against the white fabric. “That you will not visit the whorehouse again,” she had told him.

 

He had not been angry, which a part of her suspected might happen. “Why?” Sandor had simply asked her, his hand gently rubbing back and forth on her shoulder.

 

“Because,” she had said softly, “I would rather you spent the time with me.”

 

Sandor’s hand had stilled its pattern on her shoulder, though briefly. He had resumed it again a moment later. “Doing what?” he had rasped, his voice low. It had sent tingles throughout her body as she lay there beside him.

 

“Whatever you like,” Sansa had whispered back, and every night they had spent together since then had been as innocent as the day she was born. He would just lie with her, breathe in her scent, and fall asleep tangled in her limbs. Sometimes she had awoken to him against her back, hard in the morning, but they never talked about it and Sansa never had the nerve to make a move.

 

She had recently asked some of her friends, especially Ona, about the sorts of things men and women did together in bed. Ona was young like her, but she was also experienced with men, and she told and sometimes showed Sansa some of the tricks she had learned along the way. Sansa’s confidence was higher now as a woman, and she knew what she wanted now in a way she hadn’t known in her youth.

 

As Sandor lay on the bed with his arm thrown over his eyes, Sansa crawled onto his lap and straddled his hips. She was wearing a gown, which was not lost on her, and her positioning caused it to hike up to her thighs. Sandor instinctively reached out to grab her hips, and she wondered—with a flush to her face—if this was what he normally did with women.

 

Sandor’s hands slipped down to her thighs, and Sansa smiled and bit her lower lip. She ground her hips down on his, and he groaned low in his throat. When Sandor opened his eyes and realized it was her, he pulled his hands away from her.

 

“What are you doing?” he asked her, an edge to his voice.

 

“What Ona told me to do,” Sansa answered him softly, and she leaned forward over him, her hair making a fiery curtain around their faces. She drove her hips down again, feeling him grow hard beneath her. “Do you like it?” she asked in a whisper, and Sansa leaned down to capture his lips in a kiss. She expected Sandor to resist, but his stillness lasted for only a moment. He growled low in his throat, grasping the back of her head with his hand, and kissed her hard in return.

 

Sansa allowed him to be rough at first, but then she pulled away and put her finger to his mouth. “Be gentle,” she murmured. Slowly, she lowered her lips to his chest and kissed him, keeping her eyes on him. Sandor looked like he didn’t know what to do. Between her taking control and giving him orders, he appeared to be completely lost.

 

Sansa didn’t mind. She wanted time to explore. She ran her fingers against his skin, touching every corner of his chest with her hands. His skin was hot to the touch, and she let her hands rove over his body as he lay beneath her. Each moment she felt him grow harder, and she rocked against him again. Sandor closed his eyes, his jaw tight.

 

Her hands came down to his breeches, undoing the laces, and Sansa slid her hand in, wrapping her fingers around him. She felt her whole body thrum with excitement as she stroked him. “Would you take me to the festival,” she asked, her shining eyes at him, “if I take you somewhere first?”

 

“Take me where,” he ground out, and she watched the uneven rise and fall of his chest with an unladylike smirk. It was working, then. Sansa scooted down his body as her hand worked on him, and she felt nervous butterflies in her stomach. She could only hope Ona had told her this correctly.

 

When she looked at him first, she thought once of how ugly she used to believe this part of a man’s body, but age made a difference on her thoughts. She lowered her mouth to him, cautiously licking at the head and lifting her eyes to see his reaction. Sandor hissed, swore, and gripped the bed sheets with his hands. Sansa smiled and dragged her tongue along his length, the skin slightly salty to taste.

 

She took him in her mouth then, closing her lips around his shaft and moving her mouth up and down. She had never seen him so unhinged before, not even that night they spent together in the barn so many years ago. She found she liked this, too, just as much as him. Knowing she could have this power over him made her throb between her legs with a familiar ache, and she knew she wanted more than just this.

 

Sansa pulled away but returned just long enough to gently suck on the head of his manhood, and it elicited another curse from his lips. With her eyelids heavy with desire, she headily grinned at the sight of his prostrate body before her. Sansa crawled back up his body, gripped his hardness in her hand, and gave it a few good strokes and squeezes. Leaning forward just slightly to give herself enough room, she positioned him near the dampness between her legs.

 

Sandor’s body seemed to shudder beneath her. “What are you doing?” he asked yet again. “Where are your . . . ”

 

“I took them off,” Sansa whispered, referring to her lack of smallclothes. She rubbed his head against her entrance, moaning softly at the little shocks of pleasure it brought her. Sandor’s hands gripped her hips again despite his protests, kneading her skin through the thin cloth of her sleeping shift.

 

When she sank down on him slowly, her body didn’t want to accept the intrusion. It hurt despite her readiness. Sansa expected as much. Ona said it would hurt the first few times, not just the first time, and she would need time to get used to it. Sansa pushed with her weight until she felt him go in fully, and she gasped at first, her hand splayed against his stomach.

 

Sansa sat completely still, waiting for the moment when she felt comfortable to move, but she couldn’t be sure. She rocked her hips a little, but she didn’t quite have a rhythm. Sandor must have noticed, for he sat up to reach her, wrapped a hand around her head and kissed her. She relaxed in his arms, and Sandor pulled her down to the bed with him before rolling over to cover her with his body. He was above her, and Sansa wrapped her legs around him.

 

The first thrust was strange to her, and it probably showed on her face, but the second and the third sent a deep, pleasant ache into her belly. Sansa moaned and gripped the back of his neck with her hand, the other hand on his side. Sandor was slow at first, but one thrust drew out a strangled cry from her throat, and Sandor descended on her neck with his mouth and fucked her harder until she was begging and pleading and digging her nails into his back.

 

He came inside of her, and her body throbbed with both pleasure and pain, but she found she didn’t mind as much after all. She was coming down off a high, floating through the clouds. The light was blurry, but then it faded in its hue. Sandor was lying beside her, breathing heavily. Sansa rolled over and curled into his side, placing her hand on his chest.

 

“Will you take me?” she asked softly, making little circles on his skin with her finger.

 

“Take you where?” he asked, out of breath.

 

“To the festival, of course,” Sansa said, laughing somewhat.

 

“Oh,” he said. “Right.”

 

“It’s going to be a big one, they’ve said. The streets will be filled from corner to corner of the whole city. They’ll have mummers and cakes and dances . . . ”

 

“Yes, I’ll take you,” Sandor answered her.

 

Sansa hugged him, and then she was up from the bed in a heartbeat. She hurried to the door, where she paused long enough to look back at Sandor’s startled face, and she grinned at him. “Well, we don’t have all day,” she said, chiding the look on his face. “We have to get ready now if we’re going to go!”

 

The streets below were already filled by the time they left the small villa, and Sansa held onto his hand in the crowd so they would not be separated. All of the people were dressed elaborately in various colors. It looked like a rainbow everywhere she looked, and she loved every moment of it.

 

Sansa saw a mummer’s show going on somewhere up ahead, and without realizing it, she let go of Sandor’s hand and parted her way through the crowd to get a peek. It was a puppet show of maidens and dragons and knights. Sansa watched it all the while, laughing and clapping when it was over.

 

A hand clasped her on the shoulder, and Sansa immediately turned around, smiling, knowing it was Sandor. He had probably been standing behind her the entire time with a frown on his face.

 

But it was not Sandor. The man wasn’t terribly tall, but he was rotund and wore a hooded cowl. He had a close-shaven beard and goatee, and he looked at Sansa as if he knew her. “My lady,” he said, “you must forgive me. I thought you were someone I knew.”

 

Sansa looked at him closely, but he did not look familiar. “It is all right, ser. I do not believe I have met you before.”

 

“My deepest apologies,” he said. “I must admit it was your auburn hair that caught my attention. Few ladies have such a delicate coloring.”

 

Sansa felt her smile faltering. “Thank you, ser. It is forgiven. If you’ll please, I must be on my way—”

 

She made to move, but his hand stayed firm on her shoulder. “Perhaps,” he began, “you can tell me if you’ve seen an auburn-haired young lady such as yourself nearby? I do admit I must find her soon.”

 

Sansa was starting to feel uncomfortable. Her eyes roved the people around her without turning her head away from the strange man. Where was Sandor? Why did she leave his side? “I . . . I have not,” she stammered. “Please, if you will let me go—”

 

“What is this?” a familiar voice growled, and Sansa’s heart leapt with joy. She separated herself from the stranger’s grip and hurried to Sandor’s side, wrapping both arms around him and feeling instantly safe.

 

The stranger looked at Sandor and then to her, a look of surprise blooming over his face. “Nothing,” he quickly said. “It was only a misunderstanding. My apologies. I will be going now.” He turned around and vanished into the crowd as suddenly as he had appeared. Sansa’s grasp on Sandor was tight.

 

“Let’s go home,” she said, having enough of the festival.

 

When they returned to the villa, all was quiet. Even the noise from the streets seemed to be nothing more than a faint echo, and Sansa found her feet taking her to the washroom. She wanted a bath to rinse away her troubled thoughts, but the moment she moved to close the door, she heard a loud crash down the hall.

 

Sansa flung open the door and hurried to the sound. It came from Sandor’s room. She heard the sound of a sword being drawn from a scabbard, and Sansa ran as fast as her feet would carry her. She burst into the room. Sandor stood on one side of the bed, his sword drawn, a chair and dresser knocked over onto the floor.

 

On the opposite side of the bed perched a shadowy figure, a silver blade in hand.

 

“No!” Sansa cried out, and the shadowy figure turned to look at her. Sansa could only make out two points of light, the eyes, glowing grey back at her. The figure watched her slowly, creeping a little out of the dimness. It was a girl, Sansa saw, just a girl. Dressed in mottled browns with ragged dark hair.

 

The silence seemed to stretch on, and then the girl whispered, “Sansa?”

 

 _How does she know my name?_ Sansa thought, and she slowly walked forward. “Do I know you?” she ventured, trying to make out the face, but it held no familiarity. It was gaunt and stark, a grim face for a young girl.

 

“Not anymore,” the girl said. “I have no name now. And he—” She pointed her blade at Sandor. “—He must die.”

 

“ _No_ ,” Sansa said firmly. “Nobody is dying. Please, tell me, what was your name?” Familiarity began to itch at the corner of Sansa’s mind, and the young girl lifted her chin, her grey eyes on Sansa. Then it dawned on her, and Sansa’s eyes grew as big as saucers. “Arya,” she breathed.

 

“You remember,” the girl whispered.

 

“Yes,” Sansa said. “I remember.” Her voice wavered, though, and she was perhaps more afraid with this knowledge than comforted. “Please, do not harm him. Leave us be and go. He is a different person now, and he won’t harm anyone ever again unless they try to harm me first. You must believe me, Arya. You must forgive, please. For my sake.”

 

Arya looked between the two of them. It seemed a long moment passed before the dagger in her hands disappeared, and she crept away from the bed towards the window. Without a word, Arya climbed the sill and disappeared beyond it, never making a single sound.

 

Sandor sheathed his sword. “She will come back,” he ground out.

 

“Maybe,” Sansa agreed in a quiet voice. “But maybe it will be for better reasons next time.”

 

“Don’t count on it,” he said.

 

A year passed, and Sansa sat by the window of their room, holding a newborn son in her arms and singing softly under the night sky. The child had dark hair like his father, but the Tully blue eyes of her and her mother. When Sansa looked up beyond the window, she saw a figure crouched on a rooftop nearby. She recognized the figure, and smiled softly at her. Lifting her voice higher, it carried out into the night.

 

Her baby fell asleep in her arms, and as her melodious voice reached the figure on the rooftop, a single tear rolled down the listener’s cheek. One of them had a family again. At least one of them had made it.

 

Arya leapt down from the shingles, and her shadow vanished into the night.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Dénouement Redux](https://archiveofourown.org/works/783926) by [Helholden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helholden/pseuds/Helholden)




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